On Concussions and Excerpts

Posted: March 28, 2013 by Micah in Randomnicity

Well hey Internet! It’s me. Micah… I think. As you may remember from yesterday I have a concussion which I promise is just as much fun as it sounds. For those of you who have never had a concussion pretend that a monkey is bouncing around in your head wearing boots made out of depleted uranium and Taylor Swift lyrics. Then put your stomach on a roller coaster and leave it there for roughly… four days. Once your done with that, take your IQ and have it be run over by a bus carrying 10-13 year old Justin Bieber fans. I mean I’m exhausting Word’s spellchecker just typing this paragraph. It’s already had to correct the fact that I spelled “well” with semi-colons three times. Per “well.” All that to say that we’re going to do another book excerpt today just because my cranium already has enough going on in it thank you very much, what with the wanton destruction and things. For those of you who are curious though here is what happened as best I remember:

Mark Hamill (the actor who played Luke Skywalker) took a shot with a soccer ball that I blocked with my head. I don’t know whether it was the fact that it was about twenty degrees out, the fact that the ball hit me at Mach 12 or so, or the fact that I slammed my head on the ground seconds later but I am absolutely convinced inside my concussed head that the ball was kicked by Mark Hamill. So thanks Mark, I never liked you in those movies anyway.

Wipe that smug smile off your face. Jerk.

Wipe that smug smile off your face. Jerk.

And now it’s time for an excerpt:

From the Book:

Mad Jack Tennant: Origins

  When you’re a detective boredom is never a good thing. Boredom means that nothing is going on. When nothing is going on than no one has hired you, and when no one has hired you no one is paying you. And when no is paying you it means you are generally not eating, or at least not eating much. And not eating much is bad for a detective.

Because when you are not eating much you tend to be even surlier and more sarcastic than you generally are, and being more surly and sarcastic than you generally are generally means that any people who might be coming to your office to hire you, so they can pay you, so you can eat more, so you can be less surly and sarcastic are more likely to be offended by your surly sarcasticness and thus not pay you. Thus leaving you bored, underfed, surly, sarcastic, and frustrated. And yes I am giving myself a headache. Thanks for asking.

I’m Jack Tennant. Mad Jack some folks call me though honestly I prefer to think of my madness as a private matter between me and my brain. Madness is as madness does though, I suppose. And hey putting the “Office of Mad Jack Tennant” on the door certainly looks better than putting “Office of the Perfectly Sane and Normal Jack” so who am I to complain right?

Anyway though all that to say that on this particular rainy Friday night I was sitting in my office staring at the ceiling and pondering the deep intricacies of the space time continuum’s relation to the faded blue paint and then, thereby, whether said blue paint might be edible when someone knocked on my door.

I tried to look like someone you’d want to hire for a case, and not like someone who hadn’t eaten a decent meal in three days and had just been pondering the fine dining arena that is the world of blue paint, as I said in what I hoped was a manly trustworthy sort of way, “Come in.”

In most detective stories when someone comes to an office late on a rainy Friday night it turns out to be some gorgeous damsel in distress with eyes the color of the ocean on a stormy summer day and hair like bundles of barley… or something.

Oh to be that lucky.

Cause my life apparently runs on a totally different wavelength than those detectives. When my door opened on this particular rainy night I was greeted not by the figure of a gorgeous damsel in distress framed in the moonlight but by a rather large cat. A black cat, to be precise.

A black cat on a rainy Friday night. That wasn’t a bad sign at all.

The cat walked into my office like it owned the place. Which all cats do. They seem to operate on the basic principle that everything you own is, in fact, theirs and they are only letting you borrow it. Cats were worshipped as gods in ancient Egypt you know, and I don’t think they’ve ever gotten over it. Then again though the ancient Egyptians also worshipped cows, frogs, and anything that wasn’t physically nailed to the floor so I feel a bigger deal is made out of their cat worship then is entirely necessary.

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